Write about: supernova.
We had another midwife appointment in Penticton this morning. At first we had them once a month, then we went down to every two weeks, now we're at every week until the baby comes. The midwives seem to know what they're doing, because this has matched up perfectly with the increasing number of questions we have for them at each visit.
Anyway, the point I was trying to make was that between the appointment, the drive, and various errands, this took up most of our day. Though I did manage to squeeze in a trip to the insurance office to get my driver's license renewed (it's expiring tomorrow).
Tomorrow I turn 34 years young. This will be the age that will always be remembered as the year I became a father.
We could always tell when Mr. Richards was about to go supernova. There was a particular shade of red that would appear at the base of his neck, as though it was rising from beneath his shirt after it had already transformed the colour of the rest of his body.
It would pulsate up toward his cheeks and he would become the twin of the sort of Santa you might find in a small town's Christmas parade. Well, a throbbing, luminescent, gloriously angry Santa.
If we were wise, we'd knock off whatever we'd been doing to tick our teacher off at this point. Explosion averted, the red would drain back into his buttoned shirt and we'd wait a few minutes before starting up again.
But if we were foolish, or simply not paying close enough attention, that dangerous red would reach his eyes. And by that point, it was too late. There was no going back.
Mr. Richards was going to blow up and he was taking all of us with him.